


Ghosts

by Chechilia



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Feels, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of suicide (sort of)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-06
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2018-10-15 10:47:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10555044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chechilia/pseuds/Chechilia
Summary: After having been kidnapped by the knights of a neighboring kingdom, Merlin struggles to stay alive. But his mind breaks when the knights tell him that Arthur is dead. So when the King of Camelot and his knights finally find him, how can he believe that they aren't ghosts, tricks played by his own mind ? And more importantly, how can Arthur save him before he decides that there's no point to keep living anymore ?





	

**Author's Note:**

> My first fanfic ever ! All comments are welcome.  
> There is a brief mention of suicide in the fic - even if it's more of a surrender to death than an actual suicide. I tagged it anyway just in case, and please don't read it if it triggers you.  
> Also, in the story, there aren't any names used, but the main character is Merlin, the king is - obviously - Arthur, second voice belongs to Gaius and the third one to Lancelot.  
> I think that's all. Enjoy !

He's crying. How he ended up here, he doesn't know. He doesn't why his heart feels so heavy either, but it doesn't matter. It doesn't count. There are tears in his eyes and he can't see. He doesn't think it will ever end. It doesn't matter, either. Now everything's gone and he is all that's left. Broken toy.

He thought himself wise, a long time ago. He believed in who he was, he trusted his courage. But now he knows fear and it won't go away, now he knows pain and he wants to beg. He doesn't, though. Not yet. He hasn't given up. He's scared but he's brave, he tells himself. He's strong. They can't break him. He's wrong. They already have.

They killed his king, he knows, they killed his love. Now his heart is empty and aching and he doesn't know if there ever was a time he felt whole. He doesn't think so, he doesn't think at all, because he doesn't want the memories. Too painful for his mind to bear. He'd rather scream to waste his air and end up choking, lungs burning, not quite passing away but close. How he wishes he was closer. Near the edge, he can at least see the fall. He's dancing dangerously, he knows - if he finally stops breathing, no one will ever give him air again - but he can't help himself. There's too much pain inside for him to fear the unknown around. If his heart were to stop beating, then perhaps, the pain too would go away. He doesn't know. He doesn't want to know. He keeps himself alive, one inhalation at the time. One heartbeat at the time. Except he can't feel anything outside anymore. He doesn't care. Never the world had felt so cold before.

Perhaps it's his imagination, but he thinks he hears someone screaming. He doesn't dare listen to the terror in the sound, he knows it's just his own voice, full of desperation. Because there's only him left, and it hurts to think that someone might care. He curls on himself when he feels like there's a hand gently pressing on his shoulder. The ghosts of the people he lost, a trick of his mind. When he thinks about the warmth brought by the touch, he thinks he's going mad. Nothing can hurt that much, he believes. Such pain cannot be real. Such suffering isn't for the living.

Then again, perhaps he's dead. It feels like it, too. Everything is cold except the hand and there is panic screaming around him, but he tells himself it's okay. If that feels like dying, then perhaps he will cease to hurt. If there is anything his mind can still want, it is for the pain to stop. If not, why would it create such a warm touch on his skin, gently stroking, such a low and deep voice whispering words of love and despair at the very idea of him walking away in the dark ? He can't see because his light is dead, and the loss is overwhelming - so much more than he can take. They killed his king and they killed him too, and now he waits for death to come and rip him apart like his heart had been - so long ago that it feels like seconds added to an eternity.

He is dead.

He is dead.

They both are.

***

No matter how much he prays, the voices won't go away. He doesn't remember when the words cease to be from a man alone. His mind's breaking, after all, because the ghosts are here and the pain is as vivid as it ever was. He wants to ask why him, why there, why everything. Why giving his cold soul a light and then take it away. He doesn't answer. He doesn't think he ever spoke the words to someone other than himself. He doesn't want anyone else to know how much he burns inside - how cold he is, like there's ice in his veins in place of blood. It's a strange thought : he feels like all his blood has been drained away.

He's drowning on his own breaths now, but he can't die just yet : the hand has moved on his cheekbones, brushing the tears away, and the voice is now calling his name in his ear. Begging him. Stay with me. Stay with me. Stay with me. He isn't going anywhere, he thinks, he can't. His light is gone but the hope still stands, however weak, a twisted trick from his mind to try to keep him alive. He doesn't want to be. He wants to fade. He wants to forget. He can't stand the pain anymore, and why did it have to be him ? Against all gods he would have fought, disregarding the odds. But he was so weak and now even more, mourning the death of his king and his own that is to come.

But no. Not his own. His own he can't - he desires it too much. And then there's the voice still calling him, somehow grounding him - this voice, he doesn't recognize. He doesn't want to : he knows the ghosts can still hurt. He feels a forehead pressed against his then, in a gesture of despair. A mouth is hovering over his own, a shaky exhale of breath and then there's a soft kiss pressed on his lips, full of hope and love and he wants to cry again because he can't believe his own mind can be so cruel.

Someone's holding him. If the walls weren't close, he would have thought them raining - he can feel the droplets of water on his own face. Is there someone crying ?

That, he can't bear. It's all too much and he passes out.

***

He doesn't know how long he stays unconscious : his mind is too far gone to remember such a trivial thing. Not long, he thinks, because the voices haven't got quiet yet. Except they seem clearer now. A hand is gently stroking his own in a never ending circle. Another one slowly presses onto his head, as if to check for fever. He can't help but listen as the hole in his chest is tightening, threatening to swallow him through. The words form in his head but they don't make any sense. He hears them but can't understand.

" Why is he like that ? "

This voice is painfully familiar but he doesn't want to remember. Not yet. He somehow feels warm, if he can delay the return of the cold despair, even for a few seconds...

" I believe he's in shock. "

This second voice, he knows, he's not used to hear. It belongs to someone quiet - someone who's supposed to be dead nonetheless. He begins to shake and the memories flow again. He's praying for someone to take them away. No one notices : it's his mind that shivers, not his body.

" What could possibly have caused such a reaction ? "

" I don't know. "

" I think I do. "

He can differentiate the voices now, and there is a third one that just spoke. Gentle and warm and worried - and yet somehow relieved.

" A guard told me that he began to cry when they said that we died. "

A sharp intake of breath, and then :

" But when they told him, purposefully, that you were dead too... "

He remembers the words and he remembers the pain and the never ending circle finally ends, struck by the unbelievable.

" What did you say ? "

It's barely a whisper, but it's the closest voice that spoke : the one which the hands belong to, and the kiss and the hope and the love. The one he doesn't want to remember : the fear to lose it again is absolute, and he knows his mind will break. Or perhaps it already has, and that is why he can hear it again even though he knows the voice is the one of a ghost. The voice of the man he loved with all his heart and even more and who's now gone. Forever. The pain flows again, excruciating.

" I think he's like that because he believes you are dead. "

" But I'm right here ! You said he could hear me ! "

" He can. But... "

The second voice is pained. Slow and careful, as if not to scare a wild animal that could kill him in a second. An animal that could break over his words.

" But ? "

The voice is desperate, so much that he wants to answer him. You're not real, he wants to say. I love you and you're gone and you're not real. And so he does. His throat is bruised, however, and he can't even manage a sound - perhaps something close to a sob, because the hand on his own is tightening, as if to remind him of its presence.

" But he probably thinks that you're not real. That you're a projection of his mind, only designed to keep him alive. An illusion, however painful, he wants to believe in but can't."

That's it, he thinks. Second voice is clever. It understands him. Of course it does, if his own spirit cannot understand itself, then what's the point of living ? There's none and that's why he misses the next words :

" What can I do ? "

" I'm afraid there's nothing, sire. "

I'm afraid there's nothing. Finally his mind understands then. That all of this is not real. That his light is dead, and will never be coming back. That there is no point as to create ghosts, because he knows they aren't real and he can't keep himself alive through them. He doesn't want, after all, he feels like he's dead too. Dancing around the edge. So close to the precipice, so near of the end, he just has to take one more step, to refuse one more intake of breath...

" Talk to him ! We're losing him, he just..."

Burning lips are pressed against his own, parting them, and there's an exhale : the voice he can't remember won't let him die. The body laying on him is grounding him, won't let him go, won't let him escape the pain the only way he can. The kiss shattered his thoughts and he can't think again, all he can do is listen to the voice whispering in his ear. He hears his name.

" I know you can hear me. I know you're right here. Don't you dare leave me now. Don't you dare walk away. Don't you dare refuse to believe me when I say I'm as real as I ever was, and yours. Don't you dare _die_ ! "

The last word strangely feels like breathing again, because behind the raw throat and the harsh voice and the low, never defeated whisper, between the hope and the anger and the fervor lies a memory. He knows this voice, and can't believe he ever forgot what it sounded like in his ears. He can't believe he forgot, and perhaps he hasn't forgotten at all : the voice was always there somewhere. The voice of the man he loved. Never ceased to love, even beyond death and pain and rage and despair. The voice of his king.  
And then it strikes him. Hard. It strikes him like lighting, hard and fast and beautiful. Sire. The second voice said sire, and the third one had in it the same deference, even if it never said the word itself. Sire. It couldn't have been his mind toying with him then, because it isn't a word he used to say this way. Not with almost fear but with love, and he can't imagine a part of his mind that would feel otherwise. Longing bursts in his chest, but he crushes it desperately : he can't allow himself to hope, he can't allow himself to believe because if he does and is proved wrong then...  
There's a sudden hand on his chest, pressed against his heart, feeling his heartbeat on his very skin, naked and vulnerable and aching to the touch.

" He's... "

 _Wild_. He knows. Perhaps he is the deer caught is the headlight after all, heart pounding in his chest as if to burst out, not knowing when it'll be crushed or left to go and live. The hand is soothing though, and it's strange to feel his own heart slow bit by bit under its warmth.

" I'm right here. "

The voice whispers.

" I'm right here. "

The voice repeats. Deliberately slow. The pain is slowly fading then, as if a shadow scared away by an unbelievably bright light. He isn't cold anymore, and he remembers. He also remembers that he didn't give up quite - except he did - and he feels like it's an important thing to think. Like it will help him somehow, to know that he waited for them to find him and then only he broke. Like it could help because he isn't dead yet and he doesn't intend to be if the voice in his ears manages to prove him right. And there is only one way to know.  
He inhale slowly then, careful to not burn his lungs and choke and cough. The rise of his chest catches the attention of the voice above him though, and the body freezes on his own. There's seconds that feel like hope and then...

Two hands, carefully framing his face.  
His name. Whispered.  
He blinks slowly and opens his eyes. The room is too bright at first, and he can't see. But then he focuses, and the first thing he sees when his mind finally returns to itself is the face of the man who kissed him.  
The face of the man he loves.  
His king.

And then there's the gold and the sky blue and the anguish and the soft smile and the light and the _light_ and it's all too much and he can't breathe and his light is back. His light is back, like it never left.  
He swallows a mouthful of air and says :

" You're...alive. "

The word sounds unsure, uncertain - like a question (a bird waiting to fly, learning to fly). (Above the fall).

" I'm alive. "

His light then says.

" I'm alive. "

His king repeats.

" I'm alive. "

His love whispers.

For the third time and it's as much a truth as a promise.  
And it's all it takes - he believes him.  
Until a fierce kiss burns the certitude onto his lips :  
He is alive. His love, his king, his light.

And all of this is real.


End file.
